


A Quiet Peace

by pt_tucker



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Incest, John's POV, M/M, Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes/John Watson offscreen, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 06:29:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7033516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pt_tucker/pseuds/pt_tucker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mycroft loves Sherlock. John also loves Sherlock. Somehow they’ve managed to make it work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Quiet Peace

**Author's Note:**

> Woohoo! I'm on fire! Third fic in a row! Had this one sitting on my computer unfinished for a while and just now managed to tie it up and edit it. 
> 
> Sorry, no beta. Also, this is really just pointless fluff with no real plot. Enjoy.

John rubbed at his eyes as he shuffled his way down the hall. He thought it was still early yet, but it was difficult to say without a clock. Sherlock had decided that since they were on vacation, there was no need for time. Mycroft had politely disagreed. Sherlock had politely agreed to disagree and then had hidden away every one of them once Mycroft’s attention had been taken by a phone call. John could have looked at the time on his mobile if Sherlock hadn’t “borrowed” that yesterday when he’d been too lazy to search for his own. 

Pausing outside the next door in the hallway, John took the opportunity to peek inside the room. Sherlock and Mycroft were snuggled up underneath the covers, though Mycroft had pulled enough to his side that Sherlock’s foot hung out of the corner. Their heads were resting centimeters from each other, Mycroft’s nose breathing in the scent of Sherlock’s hair as he snored softly. 

John silently closed the door and continued on to the kitchen.

He’d made tea and breakfast and read half the morning’s paper by the time Mycroft wandered in, dressed like he was set to attend a business meeting at any moment. The only concession he’d made to his wardrobe was leaving off his suit jacket so that his white shirtsleeves could stand in stark contrast to his black waistcoat. Sherlock, on the other hand, seemed happy to take all the concessions as he followed shortly behind dressed in…nothing.

Mycroft glanced at him and sighed but didn’t say anything. They’d all agreed that there would be absolutely no fighting during the holiday. It was the only way they could survive seven straight days together.

Sex with Sherlock helped. Mycroft looked rather mellow this morning.

“John,” Sherlock said, leaning down to kiss him.

“Morning,” John replied when they parted, “Have a good night?” He turned towards Mycroft, who’d taken up the paper, and then back to Sherlock, who was sleepily scratching at his curls.

“Rather good, yes. Mycroft blasphemed twenty-seven times and then collapsed underneath me to cry into his pillow. A new record, I believe.” He settled into a chair at the table, stealing what was left of John’s tea in the process.

Mycroft sighed again and this time followed it up with an eyeroll that could have moved objects if he’d concentrated hard enough. He dropped the paper to speak with John directly. “He exaggerates.”

“Noooope.” Sherlock picked up his own piece of newspaper, though why he wanted it John couldn’t tell. It wasn’t as if he ever read the damn thing. Ask Sherlock what had happened the day before in world news and he’d give you the blankest look ever seen on a man’s face. Unless what had happened the day before in world news was a series of murders grisly enough to give war veterans nightmares.

“I think I’ll have to side with Sherlock on this one,” John said. Mycroft let out a huff that clearly said _how surprising._ “I’ve seen what he can do to man.”

“Hmm. Yes.” Sherlock nodded, a smile playing at the corner of his lips. 

“More than seen.” Mycroft’s tone was flatter than the paper he picked up again, his mellow apparently not _that_ mellow. Sherlock should have shagged him harder.

John pursed his lips, but resolved not to respond. It was dangerous territory, that. He and Mycroft had reached an agreement, but it’d been one of necessity rather than mutual benefit, and so fires tended to start up out of the smallest sparks. They were working on it, for Sherlock’s sake, but sometimes it felt like John was the only one trying, and maybe he was.

He was surprisingly all right with that. Surprising even to himself.

As much as he wanted to hate the man, John just couldn’t. Mycroft had loved Sherlock for years before he’d come along. Had loved _only_ Sherlock. John was the interloper here, the one taking the only person Mycroft had ever fancied. 

To have someone so unexpected, someone barely known, capture Sherlock’s attention to such an extent…

Well, like he’d said. Mycroft was a pisspot on the best of days, but John couldn’t blame him for not welcoming him with open arms. 

“So, what’s the plan for today?” John stood, pulling out enough ingredients to make breakfast for the two of them, because otherwise Sherlock wouldn’t eat and he couldn’t very well make food for only one Holmes. His mother, rest her soul, would be horrified at his rudeness if he did.

His mother would be horrified at a great many things in his life if he were honest. Not the least of which was him taking it up with a man who was also sleeping with his seven-years-older brother. It was something best not thought about.

“There’s an orchestra playing tonig–”

“Dull.” 

“I suppose you have a better idea, brother mine?”

John ignored the epithet. It still made him feel strange when they called each other brother now that he knew that they were so much more than that. Especially when Sherlock was roaming around starkers and Mycroft had the look of a man well-fucked. Even if some part of him thought it was a…nice sort of image. They looked good together when he pushed aside his well-ingrained – and perfectly _normal_ – horror at the idea. 

“Threesome,” Sherlock answered, as if reading John’s thoughts.

Mycroft and John shared a look, while Sherlock continued on reading his paper, oblivious to the goings-on around him. They’d had sex together, the three of them. Twice. Once because Sherlock’s curiosity had gotten the better of them. (And, admittedly, John’s curiosity hadn’t minded the adventure.) And then another time as a gift for Sherlock’s birthday, nevermind that the man had never celebrated it once in the four years John had known him previously. 

The second time he and Mycroft had attempted to put on something of a show for Sherlock, though neither of them had been exactly thrilled with the idea. Not that they’d hated the idea either. It had been _their_ idea: a surprise for Sherlock. But while Mycroft was an attractive man, and John could only assume Mycroft thought likewise of him, they really weren’t in this mess of a relationship for each other. 

Truth be told, John was fairly certain Mycroft would have had him murdered by now if not for how it would have affected his brother.

So neither one of them were big fans of lubing up together, to say the least.

“Perhaps some other time,” Mycroft said smoothly.

Sherlock snorted and John just barely restrained himself from doing the same. If there was a more unsubtle way of saying ‘No, that’s not happening, again _ever_ ’ then John hadn’t heard one.

John finished up the eggs and tea and sat them in front of the two. Sherlock started eating without so much as a nod, John’s servitude by now a given. John eyed the refrigerator. How would it feel to have cold milk poured into your bare lap?

Mycroft had decency enough for the both of them. “My brother and I thank you, John. Is there anything in particular you would like to do today?”

The image of he and Sherlock just…relaxing came to mind. Sitting side-by-side, enjoying each other’s presence while they each got lost in their own thoughts. The quiet would be broken by random snippets of conversation: the deductions that John hadn’t heard yet, John’s complaints about work, discussions of science or medicine or anything else that came to mind. What they did every day back at the flat, in other words, only without Sherlock sawing away on his violin and jumping over the furniture while he whined about not having a case on.

Mycroft would be there too, which did ruin the image somewhat, but not enough for it to dissolve. He could be friendly when he was trying, albeit in a stilted way that was much closer to Sherlock’s awkward attempts at social interaction than either Holmes liked to admit. He could even be funny, and the way Sherlock would collapse into a fit of laughter at some of the things he said was worth John not getting the joke, if only because he was there to see that reaction. 

John cleared his throat and then shifted his attention to the table when they both looked at him. “We could, I don’t know, just…enjoy each other’s company. Maybe. It’s a thought.” John was so very bad at these things.

“Enjoy each other’s company?” Sherlock scoffed. “With _Mycroft?_ ”

“Look, we don’t have to. Mycroft asked for a suggestion, so I gave one.”

“The idea has merit,” Mycroft said, surprising them both. Sherlock’s eyebrows were to his hairline while John blinked at him. “I’ll admit that I’m not averse to a day of relaxation. Sherlock and I rarely have the time to sit and do nothing together, and this is intended to be a vacation.”

Sherlock’s resulting cough sounded questionably close to the word “lazy.” John smothered a smile while Mycroft went back to his paper, apparently done with the “children” around him. Children which he had no problem shagging when the mood– John decided not to continue that line of thought.

Sherlock gave them another seven minutes of quiet before throwing his paper onto the table. “This is tedious.”

“Hmm, yes. Understanding the world around oneself is so terribly dull.” Mycroft flipped a page.

“Yes, why are you reading the paper this morning? You don’t normally.” 

Sherlock’s expression shifted into that special blankness he reserved for when he was pretending to not understand the question.

“A game, of sorts. Sherlock will engage in a subject he finds ‘tedious’ and I shall do the same. At the end of the week, we’ll see who can recall the most.” Mycroft’s voice was smug, as if he’d already won and had moved on to better ways to occupy his time while Sherlock was still stuck back at the starting line.

This was going to be a disaster.

“I have a better idea,” John said, pointing his finger at the both of them, “Let’s _not_ do the thing that’s sure to end in either two weeks of sulking on the sofa or two months of ATMs mysteriously refusing to hand out cash, and instead find something enjoyable for all three of us.” 

Sherlock’s lips quirked ¬- clearly pleased with having the shorter of the two periods. What he didn’t know was that those two weeks made John very seriously consider smothering him with his own damn coat. At least John could still go inside the bank to get cash.

“You have something in mind?” Mycroft asked.

John’s first response was to offer a board game, but the point was to give them _less_ reason to sabotage each other, or, more specifically, John. He settled for, “Why don’t you share something from when you were growing up? _Not_ anything to do with…” He made a vague gesture that might have stood for ‘creepy incestuous moments involving minors’ or might have just come across as him aggressively shaking out a kink in his wrist. They’d figure it out. 

Mycroft stiffened. “As I have stated before: the nature of our relationship didn’t change until Sherlock was already an adult. And _he_ engaged _me_ in those activities.” His voice came out harder than his mellow mood should have allowed, but Mycroft had always been touchy about this subject. 

John raised his hands in surrender. “I just wanted to be clear.”

Sherlock, miraculously, broke the tension. “When Mycroft was fifteen, he attempted to follow me into the neighbor’s house and got himself stuck in the window.”

Without missing a beat, Mycroft snapped back, “When Sherlock was eight, he crawled into the neighbor’s house and got himself covered in ants. Fortunately, Mr. Numeier wasn’t home to hear the screams.”

“Or to see Mycroft leave his trousers behind as he pulled himself through.”

“Or to see Sherlock as a half-drowned rat when I threw him into Mr. Numeier’s shower.”

John’s brow furrowed. If it were anyone else, he’d be attempted to call bullshit, but… 

“Why were you breaking into your neighbor’s house, again? And where did the ants come from?”

“He thought he’d saw a body through the window.”

“I _did_ see a body through the window.”

“Yes, you did.” Mycroft’s nose scrunched up.

John’s mouth hung open as he attempted to find some way of responding to that. 

Sherlock took it as his que to add, “Quite fascinating what a colony of ants can do to a human body.”

The room was silent for a moment, and then John let out a long sigh and said, “Let’s just take turns having sex.”

“Agreed.”

“Seconded.”


End file.
